


By Any Other Name

by Mei (Mei_Hitokiri)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mild Smut, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:51:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mei_Hitokiri/pseuds/Mei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Jim doesn't call me by my first name."<br/>A look, from Sebastian's point of view, into the ins-and-outs of his and Jim's... 'relationship'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

> Or to give it its full title:  
> A Rose by any Other Name (Would be a Hand Grenade)
> 
> As always, feedback appreciated.
> 
> ~Mei

**By Any Other Name**

 

 

Jim doesn’t call me by my first name. I’m always ‘Moran’ or ‘Basher’. Occasionally, if he’s in a good mood (during or after sex, in most cases), I get ‘Tiger’. At first it didn’t bother me; I mean, it’s what I’d gotten used to in the Army. Everyone had a nickname, and if you weren’t on good enough terms to use it (generally, bivvying out together in 40°C heat did the trick), then it was rank or surname. But once we’d entered into a – dare I say it – relationship, it started to get to me.

 

“Basher, come here.” Jim was sat at the island counter in the kitchen, typing furiously on his laptop. We’d received a new application just that morning, so no doubt he was planning a scheme and schedule. I unfolded myself from the floor where I’d been accustoming myself with a new pair of Heckler and Koch USPs (a six-month anniversary present, not that Jim would ever admit it), and wandered over to Jim’s side. For the first few moments I was resolutely ignored.

“Adrian Price.” You know you’ve spent too long with Moriarty when that counts as a question.

“Banker. Key player in HSBC and reportedly involved with the recent State-side money laundering scandal. Left his wife a month ago for her cousin.” Jim nodded, rolling his neck in his usual manner.

“Four million.” I shrugged and leant over his shoulder to scan the plan he’d drawn up.

“Spiders? Again?” Don’t get me wrong, I’m not afraid of them. You just get fed up with the bastards fairly quickly when you’ve been out in desert country.

“Specific request. Arachnophobic.” Jim stood from his stool and shouldered me out the way.

“Get Sam in for it.” As he poured himself a glass of water – meniscus resting precisely on the lower rim – Jim shook his head.

“Your direct attention, that kind of money.” I grimaced, but snagged one of the disposable mobiles and set about hunting for the contacts book. Jim pouted at me, setting the stools back at right angles. He squeezed my shoulder as he walked past. “Don’t fuck this up, Moran.”

 

You might not think this the most loving of couplings, and I’d be inclined to agree. Jim doesn’t show his affection like most others. That last line there might as well be a gushing letter begging me to come home to him safely. The hand on my shoulder? Well…! But you see what I mean about names. It would be nice if, just once, he called me Sebastian. I’d settle for Seb. Hell, I wouldn’t even turn my nose up at Sebby!

 

I was sitting on the edge of the bathtub when Jim came home. Immediately he stepped through the door, I knew I was fucked. Usually, Jim liked to announce his presence; command the attention of the room with his voice in a way that he could never do with his physical size alone. Tonight though, he just kicked his way into the flat.

“Moran!” I tensed and quickly surveyed the bathroom. The white marble bathtub and floor were stained a weak crimson colour, and whilst the fresh blood fitted in well with the colour scheme, it was a slightly different shade to that of the scarlet towel. Oh yes. Absolutely fucked.

Standing in the doorway, Jim didn’t immediately do anything. I had expected him to go spare – attack me, even – but of course that was ridiculous. There was no way he’d risk dirtying himself by crossing the blood mottled floor to get to me; especially as he wasn’t wearing shoes.

“Come here.” I didn’t realise I was obeying until I was within reach of the man. “What happened, Moran?” I wasn’t certain whether his neutral tone was one of concerned affection or suppressed rage. I wasn’t certain which would scare me more.   
“I got shot.” Which was true. A feeble last-ditch attempt from my mark had gotten lucky and grazed my ribs. Stung like a bitch, bled something fierce but ultimately nothing to worry about. Jim pursed his lips and stared at me. His eyes flitted down to the dressing taped to my side, then across to the bottle of antiseptic, my hip flask (brandy, now empty) and the bandage on the edge of the tub.

“Don’t be so careless next time.” He turned to leave, then paused. “And make sure this place is scrubbed, Tiger.”

 

A pretty light scolding, all things considered. If there’s one thing that Jim hates more than being wrong or interrupted, it’s a mess. Things out of place, stains, blood slicks: he detests them. If he asks, then I absolutely did not tell you, but it’s the only thing I’ve ever seen him freak about.

Anyway; you’re beginning to get the picture of the name thing. I don’t ask for much, but this one thing would be nice. Better, even, than the new Mil-dot lens on the market that would fit beautifully into my telescopic sights. I’ve never broached the subject with Jim. Well, that’s a lie. I had, once. He’d looked up from his book (he’d been laid on my chest, staring at the pages. I’m not stupid enough to interrupt he when he’s _actually_ reading.) and shot me a frown.

“What difference does it make?” he asked. “It gets your attention.” I’d never tried to mention it again.

 

I was typing an e-mail to one of our clients when Jim walked into the study. I was sat at the table, facing the window (one-way glass before you say anything) that overlooked St James’ Park. I’d always appreciated the vague sense of irony that came with our location.

“How’s it going, Tiger?” I knew before he touched me.

“I’m only about two-thirds of the way down that list you sent me.” The polite way of saying ‘fuck off, I’m busy’ to the most dangerous man in London. Or second. I haven’t decided between Jim and Holmes Senior yet.

Jim’s touch was light on my shoulders.

“Come on, Basher. Leave it. I’m sure the Shi-Fan can wait for a report on progress.” I swivelled the chair around to face Jim.

“But that cabbie needs his next set of instructions.” Jim pouted and spun my chair back around. I fished out the phone I’d been using for the taxi driver from one of the safe-boxes in the desk drawer and set about texting. I wasn’t even ten characters in when Jim’s hands came into contact with me once more. Light fingers danced across my shoulders to the hollow of my throat. The pad of a thumb swiped there before moving on, lower. The flat of his hands slid down my chest, over the thin cotton of my tee, to rest over my abdomen. Holding his hands so low meant that Jim had to lean forward. His breath puffed damply past my ear and his words vibrated against my cheek.

“Come on, Basher. It doesn’t take that long to send a text.”

“It does when you insist on distracting me.” The ‘you little prick’ was implied. I felt Jim grin against my neck as his hands dipped lower again; fingers dancing across my inner thighs. When his thumb slid over my groin, I couldn’t decide whether it was an accident or not. I edged my bets and decided the latter.

“Jim.” It was meant as a warning, but didn’t sound like one.

“Yes Tiger?” He sounded so innocent that I thought I might vomit.

“Pack it in. It’ll only take me half an hour to finish this list of tasks off if you leave me to it, and then we can play all you like.” Jim sighed.

“Boring. Come and play now.” I hit send on the text to the cabbie and turned my chair around without warning. It must have knocked Jim off balance, but he didn’t show it.

I stood, towering over the little genius, and glowered at him. Men and women the world over (Three Continents Watson, eat your fucking heart out) have informed me that it’s a particularly alluring expression. Jim grinned happily at me, the smug bastard. For each pace I took forward, he took one back, until he was pressed flush against the wall; pinned there by my body. With my arms braced against the wall either side of him, Jim was completely penned in.

“You want to play? Is that right?” Jim just continued to grin at me. I reached out and snagged his tie, hauling him up onto his tip-toes. Taking advantage of his new height, and uncaring of his reduced oxygen supply, Jim kissed me.

I’d expected his to be a selfish lover when we’d first gotten together, but he was surprisingly gentle. This kiss, for example, was slow, soft and tender. I released my grip on his tie and lowered my hands to his waist, leaning into the kiss. Jim’s own hands twined around my neck; fingers playing in the short strands at my nape. Humming contentedly, Jim deepened the kiss; his tongue darting out to taste my lips. I allowed myself to be drawn in; pushing my way into his mouth and taking time to explore. The thing with Jim is that he always tastes fantastic. Even at four in the morning, when we’ve both just woken, he tastes sweet and fresh.

“Fuck, Moran.” Pulling back, Jim’s pupils were blown and his cheeks stained red. I grinned at him, pushed my thigh between his splayed ones and ground upwards. The soft whimper he gave would’ve been pathetic in any other situation, but here and now it was one of the hottest sounds I’d ever heard. Jim bucked up helplessly, gripping my shoulders. I kissed his neck softly, making short work of his belt and flies. Jim shifted his hips until I could get his trousers down around his thighs.   
“Tiger, please.” Begging already. I smirked proudly. With as little pressure as I could manage, I slid my hand against the bulge in his underwear. Jim hissed softly and tightened his grip on me. Wanting to get this over and done with as soon as possible, I tugged his boxers down until they joined his trousers around his thighs and wrapped my hand around his hot length. Jim let his head fall forward onto my shoulder, panting. I eased my free hand down his back to soothe him, even as my other set a steady pace. Every so often, I swiped my thumb over the swollen head; gathering the beads of precum and causing small, involuntary bucks from Jim. His soft moans began to increase in both frequency and volume, and I began to twist my hand on the upstroke in response. Jim’s hips moved in counterpoint to my hand as I started to increase my pace. The hand that had been on his back slid down further; the pad of my finger pushing over his entrance. We both knew I wouldn’t actually enter him without some form of lube, but I guess Jim must have worked himself up pretty effectively. With a strangled cry, he spilled over my hand, twitching and bucking. The silence hung heavy until he pushed at me weakly. I smiled and grabbed the box of tissues off the desk.

 

So, not even during out most intimate of moments does he say my name. Well… I say that. There is one time, and one time only, that Jim uses my name.

 

It was nearly midnight and winter was just settling in. We were curled up in bed, or rather Jim was curled up on top of me; head on my chest as I lay back. He was sleepy and sated (I’d fucked him into next Sunday) and he nestled in under my chin. Tilting his head up, he pressed a chaste kiss to my jaw.

“I love you, Sebastian.”


End file.
